


Ragnarok

by YumeArashi



Series: End Days [1]
Category: Matantei Loki Ragnarok | Mythical Detective Loki Ragnarok
Genre: Drinking, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Prophecy, Symbolism, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 04:40:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YumeArashi/pseuds/YumeArashi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes fate is not what you expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ragnarok

**Author's Note:**

> This could be considered post-canon, but you could also consider it AU. All characters are in their adult forms.

Heimdall wondered, again, how he had ended up in his current situation.  As was often the case, he was forced to conclude that it was all Freyr’s fault.  The Vanir had always loved a party of any sort, and a housewarming had served as good an excuse as any.  Heimdall’s objections has been overridden with cheerful Freyr-logic --  “You won’t have to share with me anymore, that calls for celebration!”

Fortunately, Freyr hadn’t heard Heimdall’s muttered reply, which had been something along the lines of ‘you have no idea’.  Freyr had also pointed out, somewhat more rationally, that Heimdall had finally gathered enough power to be able to return to his adult form, and surely that was cause for happiness.  Heimdall hadn’t been able to argue with that.

Hence, Heimdall finding himself the guest of honor at a party he hadn’t really wanted.  In all fairness, he supposed that for a party planned and executed by Freyr, it really wasn’t all that bad.  Of course, in addition to his lack of enthusiasm for parties in general, he might have preferred that Loki not be invited, but those protestations had also been cheerfully ignored by his former housemate.

And while being the guest of honor (as well as host) meant that he couldn’t very well sneak out, at least nobody seemed to really expect him to be sociable.  Sighing, Heimdall eyed the liquor Freyr had insisted on having.  Maybe it would help if he got drunk...

*****

He wasn’t really all that drunk, Heimdall told himself.  After all, he was smart enough to know that getting too drunk in the presence of Freyr would be a bad idea; in front of Loki would be worse.  With both of them around, that would be unthinkable.  So he’d stopped once the party started seeming interesting.  Therefore, he was only a little drunk. 

Which is probably why, when Loki came over to talk to him, he found himself actually holding a civil conversation with the trickster god.  It helped that said trickster god was noticeably more intoxicated than he himself was.  It made for interesting conversation, at least.

*****

Heimdall really wasn’t terribly surprised when, despite solemn promises to stay and help with the cleanup, Freyr was nowhere to be found when the party ended.  He was, however, surprised when Loki offered to stay and help.  He’d tried to decline the offer, with the excuse that despite the somewhat alarming number of people Freyr had seen fit to invite, the apartment wasn’t large and the cleaning up wouldn’t take long.  Loki, however, had shrugged and stated that in that case, it wouldn’t be any trouble.  Unable to argue the logic in his current state, Heimdall had assented.

Watching the other god move around the living room, Heimdall had to wonder just how drunk Loki was.  The green-eyed god was more talkative than usual and certainly more agreeable, but he didn’t seem physically impaired in any way.  His movements were lacking none of his typical grace, and his hands were perfectly deft as he gathered empty cans and bottles.  And while it was odd for him to be helping Heimdall clean up his apartment, it was no stranger than the two of them having spent a couple of hours now in each other’s company without any major hostilities occurring.

When the last of the mess has been cleared away, Loki made no move to leave, instead flopping companionably on the couch beside Heimdall, who’d just settled there himself.  The purple-haired god momentarily considered whether he cared enough to kick the other deity out, and decided he didn’t.  Loki had behaved himself admirably thus far, and while Heimdall was reluctant to admit it, the trickster god wasn’t actually bad company when he wasn’t being annoying.

“This is a nice place,” Loki pronounced, gazing around him with more consideration than the setting probably merited.  Heimdall looked skeptical, raising an eyebrow at the run-down apartment.

“It’s a rat-trap.”  The assessment was followed, however, by a sudden grin.  “But I don’t have to share it with Freyr, and that’s better than a dozen magnificent halls.”

Loki found this statement tremendously amusing, laughing hard enough to nearly fall off the couch.  Heimdall, in turn, was amused by Loki’s reaction, and soon was laughing nearly as hard.  Not surprisingly, this led to an exchange of Freyr-insanity stories, each one wilder than the last and all sworn to be absolutely true.

Heimdall wondered idly if maybe he should drink more often.  As surreal as it was to be spending an evening sharing funny stories with Loki, of all people, he had to admit that he was enjoying himself.  He was comfortable and relaxed, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed this much.  And yet, the part of his brain that remained logical pointed out that he’d stopped drinking hours ago, and he hadn’t had that much in the first place.  He shouldn’t be nearly drunk enough to be sitting sideways against the arm of the couch with his feet in Loki’s lap (Loki hadn’t taken the rather pointed hint to move over, and really, he made too good a footrest to bother moving). 

And he certainly shouldn’t be drunk enough to be comfortable with the casual touches that Loki would occasionally bestow in the course of one of his stories.  Heimdall was not in any way accustomed to much physical contact, and the hand on his arm or fingers brushing against his ankle should have bothered him.  Should have, and didn’t.  Perhaps it was the knowledge that Loki didn’t mean anything by it; it was simply the trickster god’s way with those with whom he felt comfortable, and in a way it was flattering that Loki could be that casual with him.  On the other hand, perhaps he’d had more to drink than he thought.

But as relaxed as he was, the light touch on his cheek was still startling.  Heimdall’s head snapped up and he regarded his guest with one wide eye.  The other god’s green eyes were thoughtful, and when he spoke his voice was soft.

“You should smile more often.”  The tentative touch returned to brush against the corner of Heimdall’s mouth, light as a breath of air.  “In all the time I’ve known you, I don’t think I’ve ever once seen you smile before.  Yet it suits you, somehow.”  Gentle fingers traced the sudden blush staining the high cheekbone.

“What are you doing?”

“Just...looking at you.   However often I passed you on Bifrost, I don’t think I ever really saw you.”  A graceful hand skimmed over smooth skin, as if to memorize each feature by touch.

“Loki, you’re drunk.”

“Probably,” came the agreeable reply.  “You know, your hair fascinates me.  Bright purple.  No one else has hair that color.  Even your eyebrows...”  The long-fingered hand left off playing with said hair to outline the arch of an aforementioned eyebrow.  “So perfectly unique...”

Heimdall found he couldn’t bring himself to tell the other god to stop.  In all his long, lonely time as the Guardian of Bifrost, never had anyone touched him with such gentleness.  The soft touches disarmed every last defense he’d ever built and woke a fierce, sad ache in his chest.

“I think...I think that I want to kiss you.  Would you let me?”  Somehow the question did not come as a surprise to the guardian god, as if the events playing out in the small room had been written in fate long before.

And since that was the case, when soft lips brushed lightly over his own, he could do nothing but let his eye slide closed as he allowed the kiss.

It wasn’t what he would have expected, if it could be said that he’d ever truly expected anything about being kissed by Loki.  Instead of an aggressive, demanding action, the kiss was as gentle and tentative as the previous caresses. 

Heimdall had barely begun to return the kiss when Loki pulled away.  In many ways a stranger to emotions, the white god could not name all of what he saw in the bright green eyes, but there was wonder, and a little sadness, and need.  Not the physical need he would have expected, but something akin to the nameless longing in his own heart.

It was that answering need that spoke to Heimdall on a level that he hadn’t even known existed before now, and he found himself pulling the other god back to him for another kiss.  When they broke apart again, Loki breathed his name, and there was an unspoken plea in his voice that Heimdall was powerless against.

Light kisses scattered across his face, following the path that deft hands had blazed earlier, then traced down his neck as those same hands tenderly caressed his awakening body.  Desires long dormant whispered to him, and he could only obey.

As Loki moved to undress the violet-haired god, Heimdall realized that this wasn’t going to stop.  Loki wouldn’t stop because he had no reason to, and Heimdall wouldn’t stop him because he couldn’t possibly say no.  And while this realization should have disturbed him, he felt only a sense of rightness.  This was fated.  His defeat at Loki’s hands would not come on a great battlefield, but here in this little room, on this dingy couch, submissive before his oldest enemy.  Loki would conquer him, claim him, but even as he did he would fall himself, defeated not in battle but in intimacy.

Loki rose from the couch briefly to divest himself of his own clothing and Heimdall reached for him as he returned, eager to meet his fate.  He arched and cried out as Loki claimed his body, sweetly painful, as was only fitting.  Loki soothed him with kisses, moaning his name softly as he did.  The need was strong in the desire-hazed green eyes now, raw in the thick voice.  The same silent plea cried in every movement, rising almost to desperation as he brought them towards ecstasy.

And just before his world went white, Heimdall could swear there were tears shining in the other god’s eyes.

******

Afterwards, Loki rested against Heimdall’s shoulder, still panting slightly.  “What was that?”

Heimdall smiled and kissed him.  “Our Ragnarok.”


End file.
